


Pink Rabbits

by TheLiminality



Series: High Violet [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiminality/pseuds/TheLiminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You said it would be painless. It wasn't that at all." - Pink Rabbits, The National</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Rabbits

Sherlock did not know why he was here. But he, shockingly, does know where he is. It is the one place his older brother deemed “permanently banned” until all of the dreadful paperwork was completed. Dying was the easy part. Coming back to life was the challenge. Or rather, explaining the body in "his" coffin that took his place was the challenge.   
His eyes are aimed at the door with a practiced ease. He knows how many chips are on the thick black paint of it. (267). He knows how many times this door has opened and shut (3,693). Though, with his brain and current altered state, he wondered why he couldn't will the door open. He feared touching the doorknob would burn him. Leaving with him with blistered fingers and continuous confusion. If he looked closely at his hands he could already see the skin bubbling. And at that moment, the sky decided to relieve it’s swelling with a cascade of acidic rain. It only took five minutes for the rain to soak him to the bone. Unlike the other shivering dwellers; he didn't feel it at all. In fact, it was refreshing. It kept his brain moving.

Three years. That is how long it has been since he stood in front of this very door. There was something very not good, though. This door wasn't his door. Or John’s door, for that matter. It was a figment of his fragmented imagination. This was now a typical occurrence in the Detectives life. He turned back to his drugs. Embraced them, actually. It made his blood feel fortified with love. Nearly frothing with it. Something he convinced himself he is void of. He couldn't love John. He was attached to John. There is quite the difference. And after three years of solitary company. Sherlock no longer knew how organic love and all it’s chemistry felt.

Empty chest cavity.   
Heavy head.   
He was his own anchor.   
But he was weightless.  
Dissolving into the crowd as easily as the cocaine took over his system. 

It was quite a joyful feeling if he were being honest. A chemical euphoria. A chemical euphoria cut with a hallucinogen. Some would complain though Sherlock was thoroughly pleased. Tainted drugs were perfect. Especially when they could bring you so close to a true death that you lean right over the very promise of it. If he closes his eyes, he feels the cold, bellowing winds that travel through the black hole around him. If he isn't careful, the hole will swallow him whole and dissolve his bones.

Death. What a sweet promise. 

The rain itself was beginning to rise. His calves were already submerged it the shockingly cold water. Soon it would be to his waist. And that is when he began dreaming about drowning. Ice water filling the lobes of his blackened lungs. Rushing all the way to the smaller, nearly useless organs. Lymph Nodes, possibly sweetbreads. Right down to the the cartilage between his bones.

He’d happily suffer through it. 

“Sherlock?” The Detectives eyes open as quickly as the first letter is pronounced from a familiar tongue. The door is open now. A familiar, though blurry figure resides between the aging wood. Coming with him is the scent of cheap fruit juice and cheaper liquor.   
“John!” It sounds joyous. It feels much the same. His hands and arms rise and fall as if they are splashing against the slowly greying water. John could drown with him. Then never again would years have to separate them.  
“You can’t be here.” John, with the determination he usually carries so easily upon his broad shoulders, rubs his eyes. Trying to make this illusion of a madman disappear. But he won't. He remains a constant in his vision. Molecules upon molecules. Not really, though. John’s blood alcohol level is currently more alcohol than blood. He hasn't made a habit of it. Once and awhile, reality becomes too much. And if he is granted the right to feel whole again, he will take it with greedy calloused hands without a second thought. He has. Time and time again.

“Neither can you. Look at you. Be careful, you might drown with me.” Sherlock is slurring as well as swooning in his ocean. The motion is particularly comforting to him. Though it is making John want to vomit. He steps out from the door. Pulling his best friend close to him. His eyes travel across the gently aging features of Sherlock. Trying to identify him as a truth. But his body is cold, he’s not shaking. Not real. 

Sherlock does much the same. But his John only drank during holidays. And today is very much not a holiday. Though everyday was a funeral without this man. A poetic thought that remains crammed in the fractured skull of a man who clings on to weapons and promises of a return that may never come. He can tell that John is in some way or another, near tears. Though this John. This lovely, warm John, won’t cry.   
Sherlock rests his head against John’s shoulder. Bringing him into the swaying whether he wants to be there or not.

“What have you been drinking?” It’s asked with a partial giggle. One that has not escaped Sherlock’s lips since his first year of University.

“Grapefruit juice. Vodka. Whatever was in the flat, I think.” Unlike Sherlock’s mind, John’s was slowed down to a pace that was barely being dragged along. He knew that since they were pulled into the dark, not many people would see him talking to air. Holding on to air like he has tried oh so many times to come back with nothing but that shattering noise in his chest.   
“It smells terrible.”  
“You are terrible.”

Sherlock simply smiles at that. Terrible is better than awful, is it not? It’s closer to good. Farther away from useless. He needed to finish this conversation before he became sober and realized this man wasn't real.   
“Have you missed me?” Sherlock is a bit too close for comfort. John nods, nonetheless. “Have you thought of me? Is that why you’re drinking this poison?” John nods a second time. Silence claiming him. Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his elbows. Fingers pressing hard enough to feel. Only because his own fingers were so numb he couldn't tell.   
“Did you miss me?” He asks again. Trying to fish for a better reply from the living ghost of a man.

“Just the parts of you that I knew would miss me back.” John says it quietly. Trying desperately to still the swaying motion. Sherlock shows no outward emotion. Only a poisonous grin. His lips leaning against the ear of his Doctor. 

“You’re always in my mind. You do it on purpose, you bastard.” There is venom behind it. It’s feeble, however. He can never stay too man at his vision.

“I’m always at your grave. That’s probably why.” John was ready to pass out right there. In the grips of his madman, real or not, it wasn't happening.

Sherlock finally pulls away. Physically remove the smirk from his own face with cold pale fingers. His eyes meet with John’s. His head tilting.

“Drown with me next time.” He takes his leave then. Pleased with his visions, his mind. Oh how beautiful it has been. John steps back with a whimper, shutting the door in the wake of his ghost. Both thrive on the promise of sleep and some semblance of normalcy upon waking. 

One wakes up cold. Bones aching.  
The other wakes up hot. Head throbbing. 

To the two men, the meeting never happened. 

It’s still been three years (and 26 days).

**Author's Note:**

> This was written by the suggestion of my dear Alyx (icovetyourskull on tumblr). I am finally getting back into this series, but I appreciate suggestions for The National songs to write to! So please, throw them at me.
> 
> I do not own any of the characters or the songs referenced yada yada


End file.
